


Open Confines

by thethrillof



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25914256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethrillof/pseuds/thethrillof
Summary: A Stag's place is the Stagways, but the little wanderer doesn't seem to care.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 101





	Open Confines

The first time the little one travels to the station near the surface on the Last Stag’s back, they stop on the edge of the platform.

“This place… we are near the surface, I believe? There is a town here. You should take the opportunity to rest,” he offers. “This place was once full of travelers coming and going. It seems much quieter now.”

He supposes they take note of that, turning to go up to the town, rising out of his sight. He considers settling down somewhat; running for a passenger is a joy after doing so only for fleeing from the occasional wandering dead, but his legs remind him of the years it's been.

The lift again descends after what feels like only a minute. He suspects he’d fallen asleep on his feet without noticing as the soft _tap-tap-tap_ of the little wanderer’s feet returns.

“Eager to travel the Stagways once more?” he asks, but they hop backwards before he can continue. He must crane his neck to see them, peering at him with their curiously dark eyes.

They hop forward, and then back. “Little one?” Forward, back. The bell rings right next to his head, and he startles before his eyes catch up with his ears, the little Nail flashing in its silver arc.

A bell, for calling. For travel. His grunts pitch up in realization.

“I’m afraid the lift wasn’t made for one my weight and size.” The Last Stag is touched, as well as a touch perturbed. “Besides, if not on the Stagways, I’m unable follow the bells if called across the Kingdom for you, or any others that may appear, as scarce a chance as that might be. No, my place is here.”

They hop forward one more time, balancing on the platform’s edge so precariously, he expects they’ll tip forward to land in front of his legs. Whatever thoughts they have manifest as neither word nor expression.

When they leave, they strike the bell one more time.

* * *

The bell rings, and the Last Stag follows. More and more Stag Stations open; more and more memories surface from where he has had no need to access them for an age. The little wanderer is doing him as much a favor as his swift legs are doing for them.

One such visit ends in the King’s Station.

The City’s water trickles down as he waits, patiently, as always.

They return—nay, they _appear_ , as they sometimes do, though it could always be a trick of his aging mind and eyes—leaping from the edge of the bench, ready to continue on their mysterious paths outside of a Stag’s purview.

He’s already told them of this station, and of the radiant King that ordered the creation of the Stagways and stations. When they stop and whirl to settle at his side, he expects to repeat himself, since he can't yet dredge up another fact. Before any words come, little hands with tiny claws are tangling in his beard. “Little one–!” This is startling enough he tosses his head, though all they do is cling on tight. _“What_ are you doing?”

Feeling more than seeing one arm sliding up from their place, the little wanderer points up. Then, they squeeze what they’re still holding, and the sound of the water wrung out is audible even above the rain.

“Ah. It’s no worry, little one, I’ll dry off next time I travel.”

This doesn’t seem to satisfy them. They release their grip, only to _tap-tap-tap_ around to his other side and _push._ It’s a rather more forceful shove than such a tiny being should manage, but it only slightly tilts him with a huff of surprise. “I am absolutely fine with the water, I promise you this. My place is here, and if it is truly terrible enough, I will retreat into the tunnels to drip off.”

This gets him a stare he believes is attempting to be unsettling rather than their usual look, circling around to stare him in his face. He gently taps the end of his snout on their face. “Do not worry, little one, but I appreciate your thinking of me.”

Finally, this is enough. They dash off.

For the first time, though, since he was traversing only the Crossroads as a near-hatchling, he considers. A Stag’s place, from birth to death, is the Stagways; leaving it was expected only for the most terrible of emergencies, such as cave-ins. These he’s certain he’s experienced, but fear of danger and open spaces mar the recollections along with the passage of time.

He’s seen plenty of Hallownest’s beauty from its stations, besides. It should be enough.

…But he wonders, now, what his little passenger sees in their wide travels.

* * *

As called, the Last Stag waits at the Hidden Station. Lately, he finds they’ve been returning to this secret place more than most. He sticks to his duty, but in truth, the strange silence that isn’t _true_ silence is far less comfortable than simply standing beneath water. (Though at least this is better than the scrabbling danger, overwhelming in that place of spiderwebs.)

As they often do, the little one takes a seat on the bench. Unusually, their head doesn’t bow into sleep. Preoccupied, he supposes.

He waits.

And waits.

He has great patience, able to settle into a half-rest when he isn't needed or moving, and he falls into this during his waiting, til he finally jolts back to reality.

He peers over, checking to see if he’s missed anything, but the somewhat-blurred shape of their horns are in the same place as it was…how long ago? Hours?

They are so terribly still for so terribly long that he calls out for them, and still, they do not move.

The thoughts of outside the Stagways are still stewing in his mind, and they are still his only passenger. A bell will not ring after all this time. And if it does, does he not owe everything to this little one?

It takes a leap, not a climb, to land on the flat platform. Pain stabs through each segment of his legs all at once, his breath leaving him for a few terrible seconds, but he pauses himself, and it subsides to something just above the usual dull throb.

The area around this Station has little to offer in sight or experiences, but this is the last thought on his mind as he trots forward. Most of it is worry for the little one, and fighting off the urge to turn and flee right back.

They startle when he appears at their side, head lolling to the side in a motion that looks terribly uncomfortable.

He has no time for relief or a mild word of reproach at their odd inaction. The little one clambers down from the bench and settles right beneath his chin.

The Last Stag is careful not to move. They don’t seem to realize how easily they could be crushed by his bulk—particularly when they start to tug on the longest parts of his beard, to pull him down. They stop after very little effort.

…This lack of stubbornness worries him as much as their stillness.

By now, he understands they are unable or unwilling to speak. He hardly knows how to ask what might be wrong, besides. He can only act, as they do.

He steps back—nearly slips, the strange stone under his feet unfamiliar to his grip—and nudges them just forward enough that he knows exactly where they are. “Stay still, little one.” And only then does he allow himself to truly settle down, folding his legs carefully beneath him, his side against the iron of the bench.

Little claws reach up again, stroking the fur above their head.

Perhaps he could begin venturing out. If this passenger calls him again in such a way, or if they explicitly have no need of his services for a time. It may be worth it.

 _This_ is entirely worth it, feeling the space between the little wanderer’s horns pressing under his chin.


End file.
